


Will I ever

by elviehun



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geraskier, M/M, Massage, Mutual Pining, No beta we break down like lutes, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24612157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elviehun/pseuds/elviehun
Summary: What difference would it make, really? Brushing his lips against Geralt's neck, bared just for him, gone soft and relaxed under his touch? Just another way to caress. He lowers his head, one palm resting on Geralt's left shoulder, and sniffs into the dip between the Witcher's shoulderblades, smelling woodsmoke and pinesap and trying really hard to stop thinking at all, because if he does, he might not dare try it. Then he smooths his lips against Geralt's nape, tentative, inquiring, uncertain.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 316
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	Will I ever

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I've been feeling a tad low the past few days, and I found some comfort in pleasing my two gorgeous boys as they deserve. It's just pure fluff and then some very very soft smut, but it kinda helped me. Maybe it'll help you guys too💜. Thank you for reading my drabble. It's also my first somewhat explicit M/M sex scene, so please be gentle... I'd give a thousand hugs for your comment! Take care, Lovely Gang.

It forms slowly, step by minute step.

A warm palm on his back is the first touch Geralt remembers distinctly. It's late at night, almost dawn actually, and he's having a hard time sleeping as usual. He's rubbing wool grease into the creases of his saddle, as it's a silent occupation, and the dying embers provide just enough light for him to see what he's doing. Lost in the reassuring peace of familiar movements, he's slightly surprised to hear Jaskier stir on his bedroll. He hadn't been aware that the bard was awake, so he feels a bit self-conscious about being caught. Hmmm. He'd better get used to having a companion on the road. Jaskier says nothing, just lets out a soft huff, scrambling to his feet, and Geralt, thinking he's about to relieve himself in the brush, turns back to his saddle.

But then he suddenly feels the bard's palm on his back. It's not a stroke, not a pat, not a caress. His hand is just pressed there, unmoving, steady, warm. It doesn't even last longer than a couple of breaths. Yet Geralt is certain he knows what this means. Jaskier is aware that he's having trouble sleeping. He also knows by now that there's nothing he can do about it, and it's as if he was only saying _'I know. Such a drag._ ' What's strange is that Geralt feels a little bit better after that. He still can't sleep, but just idly turning the memory of the sensation over and over in his mind gives him some strange sense of solace.

And it remains like this for a while. It helps. It helps a little. A comforting touch on his arms in a tavern to calm him down when someone snarls an assault at him. Noone would ever guess that any offence of this kind still brothers him, but Jaskier, who only knows him for a few weeks, does, and he decides to do this one thing he can do, and it anchors Geralt somehow. A reassuring squeeze around his fist when he is being spiteful or bitter or self loathing again. A helping hand to tie his hair back and maybe a few quick brushes of his fingers to tame stray strands. These moments don't even have that much in common, except maybe for the bard's belief that a touch can sometimes help even more than words. And for the first time in a long life, Geralt feels he might be right.

Then one day Geralt strains a muscle in his shoulder, and it causes him a ridiculous amount of pain. It's unusual and rather disconcerting, being hampered by something so banal and human. Jaskier offers to give him a massage to relieve the stiff pain and ease his movements, and Geralt, to his surprise, doesn't back out of the situation. He looks down at the bard's hands, lithe and boyish and beautiful, nervously rubbing together in his lap, imagining how they would feel touching his skin, then averts his gaze. He strips down to the waist and closes his eyes, because he's suddenly terrified of this unfamiliar need, a longing for the comfort of a touch. It's thrilling and embarassing at the same time, and it startles him. The bard's hands are confident but affectionate, there's as much gentle caress in his movements as purposeful kneading, and Geralt is not sure this is the proper way to do it, but he can literally feel the painful tension in his muscles melt into... is that peace? He's not sure. He daren't put it into words. Not even to think too hard about it. It's just... good. Being touched, being cared for feels... comforting.

Geralt only gets suspicious about himself long after when Jaskier takes up the habit of rubbing peppermint oil into his back and shoulders after nearly every single job requiring major phyiscal effort. But he hastily shoos the uncomfortable questions welling up in him. People get massages. Nothing new. It's proven useful. Relieves tension. That's all. That is why he's looking forward to the late afternoon, when lights fade and a fire is lit against gnats and shirts are hung on branches to dry.

Yet, for a reason he might not be ready to face just then, while they are idling by the fire one evening, waiting for the skinny hare to roast, he braces himself and openly asks Jaskier if he could knead his shoulders a bit. The bard briefly ponders if he's still in pain, and Geralt clears his throat, gazes into his lap, but then admits that he asked for it only because it feels nice. He can feel the edges of his cheeks turn red, but Jaskier just blinks once, flashes a contented smile and orders him to lie face down on the bedroll.

And it's so much easier this way, having his arms to bury his burning face into, because he just admitted something that he hadn't thought he ever would. He sighs, which feels more like a growl, but serves the same purpose. Jaskier runs his palms upwards from the small of his back to the nape of his neck, and it feels like he's spreading some spell or potion across his skin, it tingles and wakes up every single cell of his body, it's smooth and so luxuriously warm, and Geralt is breathing deeper than he had in what feels like years.

What difference would it make, really? Brushing his lips against Geralt's neck, bared just for him, gone soft and relaxed under his touch? Just another way to caress. He lowers his head, one palm resting on Geralt's left shoulder, and sniffs into the dip between the Witcher's shoulderblades, smelling woodsmoke and pinesap and trying really hard to stop thinking at all, because if he does, he might not dare try it. Then he smooths his lips against Geralt's nape, tentative, inquiring, uncertain.

The desperate hiss that escapes his friend has a dizzying effect on Jaskier, it unties a tight knot somewhere deep in his guts, and something frightful and possessive opens its gaping jaws there, his hands are shaking, he's shaking _, shaking, shaking_. They both fall still for a few moments, then Geralt rumbles something awkward about the meat losing all the fat if left on the skewers for too long. They finish supper in silence.

After that, as a wordless acknowledgement of what happened that night, they fall into a sudden, quaint pattern neither of them really understand. Geralt occasionally kisses Jaskier's fingertips after a massage, catching his hand and holding it in place for a moment, but then he startles and falls back into the night's routine as if nothing happened; and sometimes when the bard is asleep, Geralt lifts his limp hand and buries his nose into the scent trapped in the lines of his palm. They speak less and less. Jaskier keeps brushing his hair, spending more and more time playing with his strands, seamlessly switching at some point to gently rubbing his scalp, pulling at his hair just hard enough for it to tingle, and squeezing his eyes shut in agony as Geralt breathes soft moans of obvious pleasure. Now and then, if there'd been wine with dinner, the bard gathers the courage to press a tender kiss on Geralt's temple before turning in for the night. They dance back and forth along this fine line, stepping over it for a second, only to hurry back to safety again. Geralt occasionally refills Jaskier's ale and the light touch of their fingers over the cup is nothing less than a shiver down his spine. If they have to share a bed in a tavern, Geralt sometimes rests his cheek on Jaskier's thick chestnut curls when the young man's drifted off to sleep. All added up, it's the most inconvenient, improbable and precious secret Geralt has ever had, and it's blood-stirring and oddly delightful, guarding it from the rest of the world.

And one afternoon, at the edge of a clearing buzzing with honeybees and blooming linden trees, Geralt unbuttons his shirt and doesn't ask anything, but Jaskier understands anyway, and his hands stay placed firmly on the ground by Geralt's sides, as his lips are burning, scorching Geralt's back, they are so busy kissing all things unsaid into his skin. He turns to face his bard, and he has to close his eyes before heaving a shaky sigh in Jaskier's mouth, because this kiss is a question and a wish and a testament all at the same time. He tastes of polleny wild honey and salt bread, his tongue slips between Geralt's lips smooth as silk but without the slightest hesitation, and it only takes a few half-muffled gasps until they are mindless with withheld need. Geralt knows it's lust, and Jaskier knows it's love, and they both know that it's both.

At some point Geralt gets stung by a bee behind the knee, but he couldn't care less, as his head is dipped in Jaskier's armpit, breathing in his clean sweat, tasting cumin and salt among the curls of his chest, the tip of his tongue circling his nipples with the most delicate pressure, the boy's high-pitched, vibrating 'ahh' -s feel like strings thrumming under his mouth, and he wouldn't care if a whole swarm of bees was stinging at him at the same time, because he's now allowed to lap his tongue at the crease of the bard's quivering right thigh, and Jaskier is moaning with breathless sobs, pleading for him to take him into his mouth.

Jaskier's smell and taste is the most concentrated here around his cock, under his balls, thick and sweet and only a tad metallic, the most intriguing flavour Geralt has ever tasted, although that might be because he never tasted another man before. Jaskier's whimpering helplessly, crying out his name unashamed, groaning and begging, _Aaaah, yes, please, please, Geralt, please,_ head tossing from side to side because Geralt is soft and slow and very eager to explore. The bard tastes wonderful, feels wonderful in his mouth, and he lets himself indulge in his lush scent and the soft velvet of the skin behind his balls, he licks a wet line up his cock, sucks all his length in, swirls his tongue around the head in languid circles, learning what feels good for him and echoing Jaskier's gasps with his hmms. Neither of them last too long, which, in itself, is no surprise, and Geralt comes untouched, which, in itself, absolutely is.

And it's only fair, he concludes, that the second time, he's the one whose strangled moans are echoing off the opposite end of the clearing. Because now he knows that there are places where he can let it show, and he feels he just found such a place in his bard's arms.


End file.
